


Agape

by plasticdaisy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: First Meetings, Fluff, Humanstuck, Ice Skating, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV First Person, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 02:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21438652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plasticdaisy/pseuds/plasticdaisy
Summary: Karkat could probably get me fired for this, now that I’m thinking of it. There’s probably a whole mess of laws about this kind of thing – bothering an Olympic-level national treasure while he’s practicing. It’d be like breaking into a gym to see Simone Byles do flips.For my boyfriend.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 1
Kudos: 75





	Agape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittyMotor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/gifts).

I kick an empty soda can, and the clanging sound of the crumpled metal against the bleachers echoes throughout the entire arena.

I’ve been here since ten last night. It’s now six in the morning and I’ve still got an entire section to finish. When it comes to a post-game arena, I move pathetically slow – but anyone would, considering the fact people become some sort of grotesque monster when watching a sport.

I fix my gloves, shoving yet another grease-stained mass of cold food into my garbage bag, a couple drops of a mustard-mayonnaise slurry dribbling down my arm. Hockey fans are _disgusting_. Beyond the food and soda they refuse to carry a couple feet down the aisle and throw into the garbage, I’ve wiped so many different colors off of the sweaty handprints on the barriers and seats that I can’t even tell which teams were playing last night.

“I’m gonna quit,” I mumble to myself, brushing my hair out of my face with my wrist, “the next time I get mustard on myself I’m gonna fucking quit.”

The massive, heavy doors that lead into the arena swing open, slamming against the wall, and I jump. One of my headphones slips out of my ear at the sudden movement, and I lose the right half of Cake’s ‘The Distance’. I should really switch onto mono-audio when I’m at work.

I reach to shove my earbud back in, but the sound of two voices fills the room as two figures make their way down to the rink, and I hesitate. I wrack my brain for the day of the week – I don’t think there should be anyone practicing this morning, but with the way this place is managed, there’s no way to know if last night Maureen Smith called with an angry demand for her daughter Kayleigh to come skate for three hours before she gets driven to her fancy private pre-school.

“You’re going to work yourself to death coming in so often,” the first person scolds in a tone that borders motherly. She stops right before the floor turns to ice, her arms crossed, “you’re only supposed to be here five days a week.”

_Five days a week is a lot of time to begin with_, I think to myself, shoving a Gatorade bottle that doesn’t smell quite right into my garbage bag.

I hear the clean skidding noise of someone heading out onto fresh ice as the second person skates out into the rink – backwards. Through the just-cleaned glass barriers, I can see the back of his head as he stops, twisting his leg a little and throwing his weight onto one hip.

It’s Karkat Vantas, and the only reason I know that is because of the forty hours a week I spend in this dingy place, he’s here almost every day I am, with the exception of the few times he’s either not supposed to be in because of his regimen, or the whole rink is closed for a deep clean. We’ve never spoken, but I’ve heard his name enough times to recognize him coming out onto the rink.

He’s a yearly competitor in the National Championships, a firm representative of our region, and I’ve been a bystander to his progress as he moved onto the reserve team for Team USA – yeah, the _Olympic_ one. He’s still skyrocketing upward in his career, but he’s reached a point where I, a janitor who picked up all the lingo I know from idle conversation I’ve heard, have no idea what he’s saying anymore.

“I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it,” Karkat replies, his voice curt and sharp.

His coach shakes her head.

“… I trust you,” she acquiesces somewhat hesitantly, and though I can’t read her face from this distance, I can tell she’s unconvinced by the way she takes a step back, adjusting the shawl she has thrown over her shoulders.

“You should.”

She turns around, and I can hear her heels clicking against the unfinished, concrete floor as she heads towards the door. It opens more delicately for her, though the sound of it slamming shut is unavoidable with its weight. It’s weird to see a coach leave their student like that, but I guess someone like Karkat is probably pretty well acquainted with what he’s practicing.

I redirect my attention to my cleaning as he starts to skate, and I shove the last box of grease sitting in the top row into my bag, wiping the corner of the bleacher clean. I stretch, tying it off and sitting down for a second. My whole body _aches_ with the night’s work, and I suddenly can feel the fatigue in my eyes as I slip off my gloves and stumble back onto my feet, throwing the garbage bag into the boat at the top of the stands.

I glance at the office door at the mouth of the hallway by the edge of the bleachers, knowing my boss isn’t in this early; I can head over and mark down my hours without a painstakingly awkward conversation, and then slip away into the daytime to take a massive nap, leaving the boat for the next janitor to throw away during their shift.

But, for some reason, I hesitate. I can hear the scraping noise of Karkat skating, and I can’t help but feel inclined to grab my things and get comfortable by the side of the ring for a minute – he probably wouldn’t even notice. There’s something so appealing about watching someone skate like this, far away from the brutish nature of the hockey players that are a sort of harbinger for the ever-developing mess I have to clear away.

I reach down for my backpack, tightening my grip on the strap, and make my way down the bleachers. Unfortunately, I’m a little less smooth than I thought I’d be, and I stumble by the bottom, making a loud _clang_ with my beat-up vans as I find a seat by the ice.

Karkat, who had just landed some kind of spin, skids to a halt and turns around. His hair, a curly, fluffy mass on his head, bounces even as he stops.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Dave. The janitor,” I answer blandly.

Karkat skates over, and the movement is more graceful than anything else I’ve ever seen. I wonder what it looks like when he walks into a room without skates on: if he has that same delicate but purposeful gait.

“And you’re watching me instead of cleaning _because_ … ?” he raises an eyebrow, stopping at the edge of the rink and leaning against the barrier with his left arm. Up close, I can see what he’s wearing a little better. His grey top goes all the way up to his chin, zipping up the center, and it looks like it’s made of a fancy fabric that’s advertised to be _warm_ _but_ _breathable _in a sporting goods’ window. His pants – some kind of leggings made of a similar material – hug the muscles in his legs.

With legs like those, he must have a nice ass. I feel my throat tighten at the thought and push it from my mind.

“Dude, chill,” I wave a hand dismissively, “I just finished, and besides – can’t a guy just pop a squat and watch you whiz around the rink a little?”

Karkat crosses his arms, and I watch the way the fabric tightens around his biceps. He probably has a work-out regimen that mirrors his skating – I can’t help but wonder if he ever does anything _else_. He opens his mouth and closes it again, confliction brewing in his hot-chocolate eyes.

He has nice eyes. They dart across the room.

He could probably get me fired for this, now that I’m thinking of it. There’s probably a whole mess of laws about this kind of thing – bothering an Olympic-level national treasure while he’s practicing. It’d be like breaking into a gym to see Simone Byles do flips.

He might want or need the privacy to work – I might be a prick, but I’m not a total asshole. I wouldn’t want him looking over my shoulder while I mix music.

“… Look, I’ll scoot, I don’t want to … disturb your practice,” I cede to his intense gaze, standing up and grabbing my bag, “it was nice to see you do some flips and shit, though.”

Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I shimmy along the barrier to head towards the exit.

“It was a triple salchow,” Karkat says before I can leave earshot, and I stop, turning back to face him. He spoke so suddenly I could barely hear what he said, though even if I did catch him properly, I still don’t know that I would’ve totally understood.

“What?”

“The jump I did,” he replies, skating along the breaks in the barrier to catch up to me, “it’s called a triple salchow.”

“Whatever it was, it was really fucking cool,” I shoot back with a grin.

Something bright flashes across Karkat’s face, his brown eyes gleaming with something between excitement and determination.

“Do you want to see it again?”

“Hell yeah.”

He gestures for me to return to my original seat, but I throw my bag down onto the bleachers, instead making myself comfortable on the side of the barrier where the ice meets the concrete – so I can get a better look.

Karkat begins circling the rink, and even that is enough to make my heart race. His face is painted with a thousand colors I can feel but not see, galaxies of promise and beauty painted on his cheeks and reflected on the ice. I see him take a deep breath before he leaps off of the ice in a sort of spinning, backward takeoff – and does three spins in the air.

He lands it perfectly and spreads his hands on either side of himself as he glides back over to me, a smile on his face.

“How was that?”

I nod furiously, unable to help the way I grin back at him.

“Fucking incredible!”

Karkat laughs, “the landing was a little rougher than it should’ve been, but I’m glad you liked it. It’s nice to have someone watching who isn’t judging my every move. I know it’s kind of shitty of me to say since, like, it’s my whole job to get judged like that – but god, it gets so tiring.”

“I always love to watch you skate, dude.”

“Always?” Karkat raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, I, uh,” I rub the back of my neck, feeling my mind race a little as I try not to look like too much of a creep, “I’m here, like, full time, so I see you a lot. And, I mean, how can I work here and not know who you are? My boss is … a little obsessed with the fact that USA-Team-Member Karkat Vantas skates under his roof.”

“USA-Team-_Reserves_-Member,” Karkat corrects me, his lips twitching in bitter discomfort, “because _apparently _I haven’t won enough championships yet.”

“I know it doesn’t count for anything, but … I think you’re really good.”

“Thanks,” He smiles, one side of his lips tilting upwards and making a charming line on his face – some of the tension melts from his brow. He’s so expressive, and not just in how he moves. Watching his expressions is like watching him skate: constellations dance across his skin and the light of the sun shines through his pores and across his eyes.

“There’s just something about you,” I say quietly, and he lets out a hoarse, muffled laugh, rolling his eyes. I can feel my cheeks start to flush, so I’m thankful for the fact he chooses to ignore the fact I’m just a little too thirsty for him. He shifts the conversation.

“So, do you skate?” he asks, shoving the tip of his blade into the ice.

I shake my head.

“Uh, never, actually.”

His eyes widen, and he looks out onto the ice and back at me – like I said I’ve never heard a song before, or never ridden in a car. He looks at me like he can’t imagine how I live without the ice, and with the way the brown of his eyes melts into softness when his gaze falls back on me, I suddenly feel deprived of something – I can see the passion in his heart shining through his stare.

How could I not love the thing he loves so much?

_I do, sort of_, I think to myself, _just in a different way_.

“C’mere.”

Karkat reaches out towards me, offering his hands.

“But I’m not wearing skates,” I reply quickly, “plus, I’m pretty clumsy, I dunno, I’ll probably fall on my ass –”

“You don’t need to be wearing skates and I won’t let you fall,” he rolls his eyes, “c’mon.”

I take a deep breath. 

“Do you trust me?” Karkat asks, his voice quiet and tender and full of things I can’t describe but feel deep in my chest.

I look up at him, meeting his eyes again.

“… Yeah.”

I take his hands, and he starts to scoot out onto the ice. Since I’m not in skates, it isn’t super hard to keep my balance, but I can feel my legs shake as I slide out with him. I feel unsteady and out of control. It’s terrifying.

I take a deep breath, looking down at my converse. The flakes of ice kicked up by Karkat’s skates are caught on my laces.

“It’s colder out here,” I murmur. My voice shakes like my legs shake and my hands shake and my body trembles with the cold.

“Is it scary?” he asks.

I look away. I don’t answer. I can’t help how I flinch a little as I feel his hand brush my bangs out of my eyes – I’m not used to a touch so tender. It’s so cold in here. His pointer finger stops on my chin.

“Do you still trust me?” he asks.

I look back at him.

“I do,” I reply.

Karkat pulls me closer to him, and I close my eyes as his lips meet mine. The kiss is soft and sweet, like he’s afraid I might fall apart like the ice under his feet. He smiles at me, big and bright like the sun.

It’s not so cold in here, I think.

Adjusting himself, Karkat raises our hands over my hand, his other hand falling on my hip as he helps me into an awkward spin – like we’re slow dancing. When I’m facing him again, we both laugh, and his laugh sounds like a song.

“Lookit you,” Karkat says, music and hot chocolate and high jumps and the sun, “you’re going to be in the Olympics before I am.”

I roll my eyes and pull him into another kiss, feeling him steady us so we don’t fall, even with my shaky legs and closed eyes.

I melt into him and he smiles against my lips.

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know shit abt skating lmao


End file.
